


An Exclusive Interview With a Backstage Tour

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Singer Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: Castiel was here for a professional interview. Five minutes, in and out. He wasn't going to fall for Dean Winchester's quick smile and easy charm.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

“Did you hear?”

“Really?”

“Dean Winchester?”

 _“The_ Dean Winchester?”

Castiel did hear, actually. He’d been hearing it since that morning—the day before—the week earlier. In fact, it must have been over two weeks ago when Pamela had called Castiel into her office, tapped the headline on the paper reading _WINCHESTER’S FIRST PUBLIC CONCERT TO BE HELD IN DECEMBER,_ and said, “Angelface, this is your big break.”

It _could_ be Castiel’s big break. He told himself not to get his hopes up. Not even when Charlie, in charge of graphic design for the magazine, rung him up and squealed _Oh my god I saw the name but I wasn’t sure but oh my god you’re interviewing Dean Winchester oh my god_ and ran into Castiel’s office and gave him a hug so strong she nearly picked him right off the scruffy carpet. Not even when he texted Gabriel in a panic for what to wear for the interview, and he had responded with _Something that brings out those baby blues of yours so you can take him home for an exclusive interview with a backstage tour,_ with a winky face emoticon. (Castiel should’ve known better than to text Gabriel.)

Not even now, when he was wringing his hands in front of the mirror in the changerooms, surrounded by backup microphones and spilled sequins on the tiles, pacing a trail in the floor and wiping his sweaty palms on his dress pants. 

He double-checked his reflection in the mirror; frowned, adjusted his tie. He had gone with blue in the end, though _not_ for the reasons Gabriel had said. He ran his hand through his hair and predictably made it worse. 

Dean Winchester, some would say, was the epitome of lucky _._ He had pierced through the wool-thick veil of fame with a debut album that broke the billboard in record time. Castiel had brushed up on his research before this, and had a decent idea of his story by now, the classic story of daddy issues and chasing his passions, dropping out of college to pursue his dream of music, and being talented, charming, and good-looking enough to reach it.

Not to be overzealous, but…

But this wasn’t Castiel’s first rodeo, and he’s interviewed plenty of up-and-coming stars while he steadily climbed his way up the ladder. He was well-acclaimed for his no-nonsense attitude, his deadpan humour, and his ability to stay calm, cool, and collected in the face of someone that would induce pink-cheeked giggles in any other interviewer. He knew the drill: smile, speak slowly, and always—always—keep it professional. Dean was notorious for his so-called charming personality, greeting a camera with a wink and a smoothly-dropped line. If you were lucky enough, he’d kiss your hand before you left.

Castiel wasn’t falling for it. He’s gone to enough afterparties to see the result of too many vodka cranberries on the placid coverup of a celeb.

The alarm on his phone dinged, signifying that his time had run out. Castiel took one last look at himself—damn, he shouldn’t have overthought it, his hair was a mess now—before shaking his head with an irritated huff. He checked his microphone hidden in his collar one last time, making sure it wasn’t muffled or misplaced, and picked up his phone from the table.

The interview was to take place in a room just offstage, right before the start of the concert. Pamela had pulled all of her strings for them to get this time slot. Castiel had done this dozens of times before, but even he couldn’t deny the prickling of nerves along the back of his neck.

He could hear the crowd from here. The concert wasn’t to start in an hour, at least, but the stadium was already nearly full. No one wanted to miss Dean Winchester’s first stage appearance, nearly a year after his debut.

The door was closed. Castiel hesitated for a second, his hand on the handle, and then raised it to knock, steadily, twice.

“Come on in,” a voice called out. Low, Texan twang—natural, Dean was born in Kansas—slow, lazy, and one hundred percent intentional. Castiel could imagine him sprawled in the seat, an unconscious image rendered already from just those words alone.

This may be harder than he initially thought. Castiel took one last second to steel himself, and then entered.

The first thing he registered was the smell: thick, cloying smoke. He wrinkled his nose on instinct, eyes glancing across the desk and spotting the ashtray, the cigarette butts littered across the table. Inside, a part of him was irrationally disappointed. Of course Dean was a smoker.

The room was neatly tidy, with nothing memorable except for the startlingly-red furniture. Two cozy-looking chairs and a table in between. A camera team, discreet and clothed in all black, perched at the corners of the room. The aforementioned ashtray.

“Hey. You’re the interviewer, then?”

Right. Castiel lifted his eyes to Dean, and nearly balked right then and there. He’d heard, read, all the cliched overused metaphors for the singer’s eyes in a dozen different articles, but it was one thing to read about the bottle-glass-forest green eyes, and it was another altogether to have them staring at him like he was the only thing in the room.

Still keeping his eyes on Castiel, Dean raised the cigarette to his lips and took a drag. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt and ripped jeans and Castiel wondered briefly if that was what he was performing in.

“Yes,” Castiel said, perhaps a beat too late. He looked away. “This won’t take long. Ten to fifteen minutes, I presume. I just have a few questions.”

“No worries,” Dean said, amusement in his voice. “I’m all yours.”

Castiel blinked and kept his eyes closed for longer than he usually would, sending up a quiet summon for his rock-solid constitution to hold. “Excellent. I’ll go on and get started right away, then.”

“Woah, what’s the big rush?” Dean cocked his head as Castiel took a seat, not taking his eyes off of him once. “Let’s take some time for introductions, don’t you think? Hell, I don’t even know your name yet.”

“Castiel,” Castiel said. “My name is Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Dean mused, eyes roaming over him. They lingered on his hair, and Castiel was blindingly aware of its disarray. His fingers twitched and he clenched them at his side to keep them from flying up to his head.

At least Dean didn’t seem disconcerted by it, though there was certainly an edge to his gaze when they met Castiel’s eyes again. “I think I’m gonna call you Cas,” Dean decided.

“Why?” Castiel said before he could think.

Bad idea. A smile broke across Dean’s face like sunshine, bright and easy and stunning, and Castiel’s chest twinged. “Why not? Easier to say, don’t you think?”

“Fair enough,” Castiel said, searching for a way to steer the conversation back to the interview. It hadn’t even been a minute, and Dean had already knocked his perfectly-constructed plan off-kilter. It was alarming how quickly he had been disarmed. What was more alarming was the way Castiel couldn’t seem to bring himself to care.

“Pleasure to meet you, Cas,” Dean said softly. “My name’s Dean Winchester.”

“I know,” Castiel said.

“And,” Dean said. “I’m 26 years old. I have an older brother named Sam. I’m a singer and songwriter. Single. Also, I swing both ways.”

Castiel made sure his voice was steady when he responded, “I know that, too.”

“Oh, really?” Dean’s eyebrows were up, now. “Well, someone’s been kissing and telling.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, though not clearly enough for the cameras to pick up. He clasped his hands in front of himself and sat up straighter, feeling the professionalism settle into the smooth of his shoulders. “Is that enough introduction for you?”

“Mm, not really,” Dean said. “Feel like you’re leaving me hanging here. C’mon, give me something to work with.”

“I’m the interviewer, not you,” Castiel said automatically, and watched Dean laugh. He took another puff of his cigarette, eyes fluttering shut briefly—eyelashes so long they cast shadows on his cheekbones. The lighting in this room was wincingly bright and painted silvery highlights on his dirty blond hair.

Castiel’s next words came before he could stop them. “I’m 29. I also have an older brother. Gabriel.”

“Look at how much we have in common already,” Dean said. “What else? Also single?” The remaining inquiry was left unspoken, but was obvious enough in the glint of his eyes.

Dean was a natural flirt, clear and obvious, and from everything he’s heard, Castiel shouldn’t have been expecting anything less. He just didn’t expect it to be so… potent. _Or effective,_ he started to think, but shut that thought down before it could develop any further.

“We’re going to run out of time before your concert,” he said instead. “Let’s begin the actual interview.”

Dean pursed his lips, but obliged, leaning forward to snuff out the cigarette in the ashtray. “You’re no fun,” he said. “But fine. Lay it on me.” 

Castiel breathed an internal sigh of relief, adopting his clear and slower speech in favour of the interview questions. “Dean, this is your first time appearing in a live performance. At the risk of sounding repetitive, for I’m sure you’ve heard this question a dozen times already, I feel as though I must ask you right before your performance: how are you feeling about this concert?”

Dean smiled with the corner of his mouth. “Good question, Cas—even though you’re right about that repetitive thing. But to answer you, I feel pretty normal, honestly, or as normal as one can get before something like this. I mean, how many people are out there?”

“Nearly ten thousand,” Castiel said. It was actually closer to twelve thousand.

Dean shook his head and breathed out a laugh. “Damn. How can I _not_ be nervous? But I’m also excited, I guess. I mean, to think about so many people listening to me. Wow.”

Castiel smiled, prompting. “That’s great to hear, Dean. How do you think you’ll perform? Have you done anything like this before?”

“You mean, other than playing the guitar in my high school talent show?” Dean grinned. “Not really. Which is why it makes it so nervewracking.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Castiel soothed. “But you said you were also excited?”

“Oh, yeah. This album has been a long, long time coming for me. The songs mean a lot to me, naturally. It’s gonna be amazing to sing it live.”

“Is there any particular song you’re excited to perform more than others?”

“Why,” Dean said, a sudden smile in his voice. “Do you have a favourite?”

“Uh,” Castiel said. Very unprofessionally.

Dean waited. Watched. Narrowed his eyes. “Cas, tell me you’ve heard my songs before.”

“I’ve heard your songs before,” Castiel said slowly, obediently.

“Liar,” Dean accused, but the smile in his voice was showing on his face, now. “I can’t believe you’re interviewing me and you haven’t heard my songs!”

“I was busy,” Castiel said.

“Bullshit,” Dean retorted, with a guilty glance at the cameras. “With what?”

“Interviewing other singers.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. For a second Castiel felt panic stirring, he’d gone too far—and then Dean threw back his head and guffawed.

“I can’t believe you, Cas,” Dean said, pressing a hand to his chest. “I thought we had something special.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Castiel said, though he was smiling, too.

A look at his watch told him that he had only a few minutes left. “But moving on: Dean, it’s been a year since you released your first album. Are there any future projects in the works? Anything to tease out for the audience?”

“Not so fast,” Dean said. “I see you trying to change the subject.”

“We _are_ on a time crunch.”

“Ri-ight,” Dean said. “In that case, I’ll make you a deal.”

Castiel eyed him warily. “What kind of deal?”

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Dean asked.

Castiel felt alarm bells ringing in his head. Keep it professional, his mind yelled. Laugh it off. Change the subject. “Why do you ask?” his traitorous mouth said instead.

“Well, are you?” Dean said, and Castiel wondered how he managed to fit so much suggestion in a few nondescript words.

Castiel was planning on going home, typing up a transcript of the interview, calling Dean’s agent about a follow-up, and then getting an early night’s sleep. “I am free,” he said.

“Perfect,” Dean said. “In that case, I do have something in the works. But, I’ll only tell you if you come to my concert tonight.”

Castiel was taken aback. “You want me to attend?”

“Yup,” Dean said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“I don’t have a ticket,” Castiel said.

“You don’t?” Dean said. “Oh, that’s a real shame. Too bad there’s no way you can get one of _my_ tickets to _my_ concert, from _me.”_ He raised his eyebrows.

“I…” This wasn’t in the script. Castiel had planned conversation topics for when things got serious, sad, ridiculous, and dangerous. Not _this._

“Time’s tickin’,” Dean said.

Pamela would skin him if he said no. That was the only reason that he said yes. (Sure it was, a voice that sounded dangerously-close to Gabriel singsonged.)

The slow grin that spread across Dean’s face was enough to make Castiel wonder what he had just gotten himself into.

“A deal’s a deal,” Dean said easily. “Now, about that project. I’ve been reaching out to other artists. Looking to expand my boundaries a little. Expect a collab sometime. Soon, later, who knows? A man’s gotta keep his secrets.” He winked.

Castiel hadn’t known that. He would bet that Pamela didn’t, either—and neither did any of the paparazzi or previous interviewees.

“That’s fantastic, Dean,” Castiel said, and he was telling the truth—Pamela was going to _kiss_ him.

A small, beeping noise informed Castiel that his time was over. He blinked at it. He could’ve sworn he had more time.

Dean pursed his lips at the sound and made his way to stand up. “Now, believe me, I’d stay and chat for longer, but I think I have a stage manager about to skin me if I don’t head out there soon, and _you,_ sweetheart, have a concert to attend.”

“I hope the singer’s any good,” Castiel said dryly, and watched Dean laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Dean replied, “I’ll put on my best performance.”

“Looking forward to it,” Castiel said.

“So am I,” Dean said, and clasped Castiel’s handshake in a warm, firm grip. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Castiel rubbed his thumb thoughtfully along the back of his own hand afterwards, watching Dean get escorted out of the room.

“Castiel?” Someone suddenly appeared next to him. “I’ve been informed that you are to attend the concert. Would you prefer a standing spot in the pit, or a seated one instead?”

“Seated, please,” Castiel told the woman.

“Right this way,” she told him, and headed out the door, high-heels click-clacking along the tiles.

“Thanks,” Castiel piped up, if only to make conversation as they walked through the seemingly-endless hallway. “I don’t—I’ve never—I wasn’t expecting this to happen.”

The woman glanced over at Castiel. “Honestly? Neither was I.”

“I’m assuming this isn’t a normal occasion, then?” Castiel tried for a joke.

“Well, it _is_ his first concert,” the woman said. “But it’s also the first time I’ve seen Dean trip all over himself to win you over.” At Castiel’s confusion, she laughed. “Oh, please. He was like a puppy.”

“He does that with all the interviewers,” Castiel said.

“Sure he does, sunshine,” she said lightly.

Before the conversation could continue, Castiel was led through a pair of large swinging doors, and the volume immediately engulfed any words he had next. The room felt five degrees warmer. Castiel was going to sweat straight through his button-up.

He ended up seated next to a teenager wearing fishnet leggings and a tired-looking dad half-asleep in his chair despite the noise, and he couldn’t help but marvel at the latter’s ability to ignore the insurmountable clamber and clutter of the crowd.

Castiel had just shed the blazer he was wearing and draped it over his chair before the dim white lights suddenly flickered. A split second passed, then they beamed a bright roaring red. The volume amplified tenfold, the excitement palpable like television static striking through the air.

The interview footage needed to be processed and cut, and wouldn’t be sent to the team until after the concert. Castiel was supposed to call Pamela right after for a brief rundown.

There was no way she would be able to hear anything through this chaos. Castiel had enough time to wrangle out his phone and text out a furious, _Change of plans. Will call later. Interview went fine. Don’t worry,_ and press _Send,_ before the lights suddenly flashed and went completely dark, plunging the room into a pitch black darkness.

Castiel wasn’t even standing and he stumbled anyway. He shoved his phone back into his pocket just in time for a single spotlight to beam onto the stage, Dean Winchester smack dab in the centre.

He wasn’t, in fact, planning to wear what he had been wearing to the performance. He had changed into a classy black jacket with white striped accents and his hair was carefully, artfully tousled.

He looked different onstage. When he was sitting across from him in the interview room, he was laid-back, lazy; here, he was glowing. He might’ve been wearing makeup. Castiel wouldn’t be able to tell. He was easy charm and an easier grin and everything Castiel promised himself he wouldn't fall for. 

When he began to sing, Castiel remembered worrying about Dean’s voice, what with all those cigarettes, but he had no cause for it. Dean sang rich and deep, smooth and just the slightest bit rough, sandpaper over stone, a twang curved around every word like a caress. His fingers danced and flitted on the fretboard with ease. 

He was beautiful, Castiel realized, and _dammit_ he promised himself this wasn’t going to happen, not with him, not like this, but Dean looked up through the lens flare-haze of the strobe lights and stared straight at Castiel and he was helpless.

After the concert ended, Castiel pulled out his phone to find multiple missed notifications. The first was from Pamela, curious but relenting. There was another from Charlie that just said **CALL ME WHEN YOU CAN HOLY SHIT!!!!!!** (Castiel suspected she had her own ways of obtaining interview material before it was released. Whether or not it was legal, he couldn't say.)

The last was from an unknown number.

_So when you said you were free tonight, did that mean the whole night?_

Castiel read it twice, and texted back, _Who is this?_

_I'm hurt, Cas. Did that whole concert mean nothing to you?_

_Dean?_

_In the flesh._

_That doesn't make sense. You're texting me._

_Whatever._ _Are you free?_

_Why?_

_Because I'm free. And I'm hungry. And I know an amazing pizza place down the street._

_It's nearly midnight._

_So?_

_I have work tomorrow._

_Are you coming or not?_

Castiel stared at the screen, eyes squinting at the brightness after long hours at a dimly-lit stadium. The people around him were all gathering up their bags and waterbottles and newly-bought t-shirts, mingling with the others around them and meandering towards the exits. He heard snatches of conversation, spilled words about the effects and the lyrics and the tracklist and Dean Winchester, whom Castiel was texting. Who was texting Castiel.

Gabriel was right, Castiel thought, and fought back a giddy laugh.

_Where do I meet you?_

_Go out through the back doors and down the street. My car is parked there._

_What if I don't see you?_

_Don't worry. I'll find you._

_I need to pack up my stuff. I'll be there in ten minutes._

_Awesome. Can't wait._

Castiel turned off his phone and tucked it back into his pocket.

Pamela was going to kill him. Or kiss him. Or both. Charlie was going to interrogate him for hours. He was already gouging into his sleep schedule just by attending the concert, and the wake-up tomorrow was going to be a positively painful reminder of it. But just for tonight, his skin buzzed with adrenaline, sparking, alight with energy. He couldn’t help himself from smiling.

Castiel made his way towards the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this at 4:30AM, so forgive any ramblings or errors. This was supposed to be the start to a longer story, but it refused to cooperate and dragged me 3k away from my intended idea until I ended up here. I still like where it ended up, though, and I hope you liked it too! Let me know what you think, and if you wanna see more ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always. Cheers <3


	2. Chapter 2

Dean didn’t do this.

Not that he had much experience with  _ this. _ First gig and all. But he wasn’t  _ totally  _ new to the whole, come for an interview and a handshake and half a drink, chat with a placid smile about future albums and track listings, and leave with exchanged numbers and pleasantries thing.  _ This  _ thing—this thing with Castiel (Novak, was his last name; he needed to ask Ash for it after the concert had ended) was something entirely different. 

He hadn’t been looking forward to the interview. His hair had too much product in it and he was smoking way too many cigarettes (Sam would have an aneurysm if he saw the ashtray right now) and he had refused to change into his stage outfit until the last possible moment because the feeling of the tight collar and scratchy hems would only propel his slow-simmering panic into a bubbling over the edge. When he heard the knocking on his door, it had taken him half a second to even remember that he had an interview, and afterwards he had half a mind to tell them to fuck off and call it off entirely. 

His agent would’ve skinned him for the team dinner, though, so instead Dean took another drag of his fourth cigarette that night and let the haze shimmer around his mind for a moment longer, and said, “Come on in.”

And then Cas had walked in. He was wearing a simple blazer and well-fitted dress pants, and the way he held his head high while entering the room, eyes scanning his surroundings, told Dean that he wasn’t here for his bullshit. It made Dean sit up straighter, eyes sharper; the grip on his cigarette tightening imperceptibly.

Dean had his fair share of interviews before, but nothing like this. Nothing like the bold, unreadable stares from Castiel’s deep blue eyes. The tenor of his voice drew Dean in like a whirlpool, like staring down the barrel of a gun; when Dean finally, finally got Castiel to laugh, it went off and struck him on the bullseye.

He couldn’t help himself. Long story short. He didn’t know what it was about this stranger, this messy-haired, solemn-eyed man, that made Dean pull out all his aces in hopes for a smile. He talked and he talked and he flirted so hard he thought he was going to pass out and before he knew it, he was being tugged and smoothed into a custom-tailored jacket and Castiel was going to hear him perform for the very first time, and when Dean stepped onstage into the blinding lights, he was facing thousands but sang to one.

So sue him. Maybe writing all those love songs finally got to his head.

Outside, the night air was biting and cold and a stark-sharp relief from the muddied air of the stage. Dean had his hands in his pockets and his hood pulled down, head tilted back so that the brick wall dug into the back of his scalp and his face canted towards the smoky night sky. No cigarettes. He was on a different kind of high, and it was lighting up his veins like streaks of fluorescent paint.

He saw Cas before he saw him: hugged in a long tan trenchcoat, clutching a briefcase and meandering his way across the street. A smile spread across his face, unhindered. Castiel looked all swallowed up in that coat. Cute, Dean thought, and felt a flush that wasn’t from the cold.

He wanted to call his name, but thought better of it at the last moment and raised up a hand instead. Castiel glanced up at the movement, caught his eye, startled briefly. Strode faster.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, once he was in range.

Dean said, “Heya, Cas,” and then didn’t know what else to say. He stood there like an idiot. Wanted to kick himself. Fuck, he didn’t want to mess this up, didn’t know why he cared or why he cared so much. Around them, the faint chatter of pedestrians hovered in the air.

Then Cas smiled. “You promised pizza,” he said solemnly. “I expect you to deliver.”

“And deliver I shall,” Dean said. “Come on. It’s just a few minutes’ walk from here.”

Castiel settled into a gait next to Dean. “And your agent is fine with this?”

“Fine with what?”

“I believe the phrase is  _ playing hooky.” _

Dean laughed. “Afraid you’ll get in trouble? Don’t worry. I told them I’d be gone.”

“For how long?”

Dean nearly stumbled the next step. “What do you mean, for how long?”

Castiel turned to face Dean, now, with a little upturn of his mouth. “I mean, how long did you tell them you’d be gone for?”

The night air was suddenly thin and sparse. “Maybe an hour,” Dean said.

“An hour,” Castiel murmured.

“Is that too much or too little?”

“Depends,” Castiel said, and goddamn that spark in his eye was back, razor-sharp and whipcord-thin, and Dean wanted it to slice him up into little tiny ribbons.

“Well,” Dean said, “let’s hope I make it worth your time.”

Dean had grew up a short drive away from where he’d performed, so he had the general routes practically memorized. The pizza place he had in mind was perfect: a bit of a hole in the wall, but that would be beneficial for tonight. He was forever grateful for each picture taken, each autograph and signed vinyl album, but he didn’t want to be interrupted tonight.

“How’d you enjoy the show?” Dean said after a while, unable to keep his curiosity at bay any longer.

Castiel canted his head towards Dean and hummed. “Not bad,” he finally said.

“Just not bad? Ouch.”

Castiel huffed out a laugh. “Fine, it was amazing and exceeded my expectations, considering your smoking habit. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Plenty of singers smoke,” Dean argued.

“Doesn’t mean it’s good for them,” Castiel said, pursing his lips. “You really shouldn’t smoke, especially when your voice is paramount for your career.”

“Aww, are you worried about me?” Dean said, trying for a tease. Castiel just raised an eyebrow, and Dean let it drop with a soft sigh. “God, I know. It’s just—” He bit his lip, casting his eyes to the floor, where his boots crunched against the lingering snow on the sidewalk, side by side with Cas. “I picked it up from my Dad. I’ve tried to quit, but after my Mom, I couldn’t… I wrote the album shortly after, and then things just picked up so quickly that I didn’t have the time to even think about quitting. Didn’t really have the energy to, either. And yeah, I know  _ I was too busy  _ is a shitty excuse, but that’s all I have.”

Shocked at his own barrage of words (they had just tumbled out like rocks falling over a cliff, unbidden), Dean lifted his eyes to Cas. Judging by the expression he saw, Cas wasn’t expecting that, either.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Dean said, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry for just. God, I just dumped that all on you, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to.” Castiel was here for a good time, a late-late-night dinner with a total stranger, he was here for quick winks and easy flirting. Dean probably just ruined everything. 

He opened his mouth to apologize again, when Castiel swayed closer to him on the narrow sidewalk, sidestepping the stray oncoming pedestrians—and then reached out a hand and slipped it into Dean’s.

Dean nearly tripped. Castiel’s hand was warm when he squeezed Dean’s hand lightly, softly, ever-so-carefully. He let go just as quickly, tucking his hand back into his pocket as if nothing had happened at all.

“I understand,” Castiel said. “I would never imply that you weren’t trying your best.” 

Dean watched Castiel for a moment, words stuck in his throat. (He  _ was _ trying, was the thing. He was trying so hard, all the time, and Cas had pierced through his easy cover with nothing more than a curious stare.)

“Is this the pizza place?” Castiel suddenly asked, stopping. Dean hadn’t even noticed they were here.

“Uh, yeah,” he said.

Castiel squinted at the flickering sign, one of the letters cracked down the middle so that the sign read P ZZA.

“Are you sure you’re a celebrity?” he finally said.

Dean was startled into a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This place looks like somewhere Gabriel would go,” Castiel said, the little crease on the bridge of his nose giving Dean a perfect idea of the places Gabriel would go.

“Just you wait,” Dean told Cas as he pushed open the door. “You’re going to eat your words.”

“I think I’d rather have pizza,” Castiel said dryly.

“Pizza it is,” Dean conceded. “But first, a  _ very  _ important question: pineapple or no?”

Castiel was silent for a bit too long for Dean’s taste, and then he said, “I love it.”

“Oh,  _ Cas,”  _ Dean said, and watched Cas raise his chin at him with something akin to challenge.  _ “Fruit  _ does not belong on pizza.”

“Technically, tomatoes are fruits.”

“You know what, Cas? Blow me,” Dean said, and shut his mouth in favour of stepping up to the cashier and ordering before Castiel could respond to that.

He still ordered Hawaiian, though, and passed the bag over to Cas, so much grease it was leaking through the paper. “Classic streetside pizza,” he quipped. “Clogs your arteries like hell, but cures a nasty hangover.”

They made their way to the stools by the side, old seats cracked and creaky. Gingerly, as if manipulating a grenade, Castiel took a bite of his own pizza. Chewed and looked surprisingly pleased (if not slightly overwhelmed) at the taste. “You have a lot of experience with that?” 

Dean shrugged before digging into his own slice. “I’ve had long nights.”

They ate in a relatively-peaceful silence, broken periodically by a ringtone behind the counter or the bustling traffic outside the doors. Dean found himself sneaking glances at the other, hurriedly flickering away when he looked up to meet them. Christ, he felt like a highschooler on a first date.

Dean told Castiel a few hours. He didn’t actually have a few hours. He was supposed to get an early wakeup the next morning so that they could drive to his next concert, with a photoshoot during the day for a premiering magazine in January. It was “his big break”, according to his agent, his manager, and even his brother. Just like his first single. And his first album. And the concert tonight. Dean was really getting tired of those words.

So he didn’t really have a few hours, but he had told the others he’d be gone, at least. Or, he left a hastily scrawled note. He’d probably face an awful word-beating once he got back, but for once Dean didn’t mind. It was worth it.

Not like he didn’t enjoy the music—the fame, the whatever it was they called it these days. It was beyond unbelievable to even grasp the concept that people would flock from four corners to see  _ him,  _ to hear him sing the songs he’d written. Dean was so, so lucky, and he’d had enough people telling him that for it to be forever etched into his mind, a mantra beyond his comprehension. He loved it, too, the stage, the lights, the euphoria of a bubbling buildup cresting, breaking like a wave and crashing down. He could still feel the strands of adrenaline trickling through his system, even now.

But tonight—just for tonight, he told himself—tonight, he was going to sit at a sketchy pizza shop and eat his weight in sodium and saturated fats. Tonight, he was on a date with Castiel Novak.

“What are you thinking?” Castiel’s voice interrupted him.

“Hm?” Dean blinked and glanced down at his hands. He had finished his pizza and hadn’t even noticed it. “Nothing.”

“Didn’t seem like nothing to me,” Castiel commented. 

Dean quirked a smile. Castiel was nearly finished his own pizza, too, nibbling on the crusts. “Just… stuff.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “What kind of stuff.”

“Plain old… stuffy stuff.”

Castiel’s other eyebrow joined its companion. “I’m glad I’m not conducting an interview right now,” he said. “I’d have a field day trying to turn that into something substantial.”

Dean laughed, a harsh little exhale of air.

Castiel smiled back, then averted his eyes to the window, where it had seemingly begun to snow, tiny, soft snowflakes clinging desperately onto the glass.

“I was thinking about how much my stylist would kill me if she saw me eating this crap,” Dean said. “She’d have me running in circles outside the studio. I was thinking about how that slice of pizza would probably give me indigestion during my photoshoot tomorrow.”

Castiel let out a laugh at that.

“And I was thinking about how goddamn good it tasted.” Dean turned to face Castiel, now. “I could be back in my apartment, running over my lines for tomorrow and doing vocal practises and getting an early night’s sleep, but instead I’m here eating shit pizza with you, and I was thinking about how this is the nicest fucking night I’ve had in weeks.”

Castiel’s eyes were soft when he said, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, and then they were kissing. He didn’t know who started it.

Castiel tasted like tomato sauce and a little bit like pineapple. Maybe Hawaiian wasn’t all that bad after all.

“Dean,” Castiel murmured, with a hand on Dean’s cheek and a thumb stroking across his cheekbone like he was something cherished. Dean tilted his face into it, turning to brush his lips against his delicate wrist.

“I have to leave tomorrow morning,” Dean said quietly. 

“I know,” Castiel said.

“The tour is a month long. I’ll be halfway across the country in a week.”

“I wish I could stay,” Dean continued. “I—I barely know you, Cas, I’ve known you for hours, but I want to, I want to so badly.”

“I know. Me too.”

“I want to go back to your place,” Dean said, and there it was again, his words falling out without his permission, spilling over in a frenzied rush, “I want to take you to the best and shittiest food places I know around town. I want to take you skating at the rink in town square.”

Castiel was smiling, now. “I would love that very much,” he said.

“But I have to be on the road by six tomorrow,” Dean said, the words cutting on his tongue. “And I can’t—I still have to pack, to clean, to,” he broke off with a muffled noise when Castiel leaned in and stole his words with another sweet, lingering kiss.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he said. “I know. I understand.”

“You have my number,” Dean said.

“I do,” Castiel said. “You’ll text me when you get there tomorrow morning?”

“Of course. Yeah. I—I will.”

“Good.” Castiel kissed him again. Snatched the air right from his lungs. (Awful, awful, cliche line, his producer would throw hands.) “You should get back to your apartment, then, and get some rest.”

“Cas,” Dean said helplessly, but Castiel was already standing up, grabbing Dean’s hands in his own, so warm and sure and so unlike Dean's.

They pushed open the door. The bell atop their heads jingled quietly in farewell.

At the crosswalk, they stood. Dean stared at Cas and blatantly drank in the sight of him; the rogue lock of hair from behind his ear, the snowflakes on the tip of his nose.

“I should get back home, too,” Castiel said, like an olive branch. He cleared his throat. “This was a very pleasant surprise for the evening, Dean. Thank you for inviting me. And for the pizza.”

“It was two dollars,” Dean said weakly.

“I guess I’ll just have to owe you next time.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I guess you will.”

Castiel smiled, one last time. Leaned in to kiss Dean, one last time. The first of many, Dean thought (hoped). 

“Goodnight, Dean,” he said.

“See ya, Cas,” Dean said, and felt Cas squeeze his hand before letting go, the warmth tingling in his skin like television static. It was still snowing, outside, and bits of cold peppered themselves upon Dean’s cheek like a myriad of tiny kisses.

xxxxxx

_ Good morning, angel. _

_ Angel? _

_ Isn’t that what your name means? Angel of Thursdays? _

_ You Googled me? _

_ Oh, please. Don’t tell me you didn’t google me before the interview. _

_ Fair enough. Did you arrive safely? _

_ Still in one piece. _

_ That’s good to know. _

_ By the way, happy you-day :) _

_ Please don’t. My parents beat that joke to death a long time ago. _

_ Well, I’m reviving it. It’ll be our thing. _

_ It can’t be our thing, it was already my parents’ thing. _

_ You wound me, Cas. _

_ I’m sorry to hear that, Dean. _

_ Anyway, how was your morning? _

_ I just woke up, so, uneventful. _

_ Really? _

_ Yes. I woke up three minutes ago, checked my phone, and saw that you had texted me. _

_ I bet your bedhead is a sight to behold. _

_ It is truly atrocious. Gabriel says I should just shave it off. _

_ Do fucking not, Cas. I love your bedhead. _

_ You’ve never seen my bedhead. _

_ You’re right, I haven’t. We should fix that immediately. _

_ And how do you propose we do that? _

_ Visit me sometime. I’ll give you an exclusive interview. _

_ Really? _

_ What? _

_ So your terrible flirting isn’t just a stage persona, and is actually your real personality? _

_ First, my flirting is fantastic, thank you very much. Second, nah. That’s just you. _

_ I don’t know whether to be honoured or suspicious. _

_ You’re welcome. Anyway, I gotta dash. My manager’s about to flip her shit because I’ve been texting you instead of showering.  _

_ Busy day ahead? _

_ You have no idea. _

_ I’ll be here, if you need to talk about it tonight. _

_ You’re an angel. _

_ Seriously, don’t push it. _

_ xxx _

_ What is that? _

_ Kisses. What, never seen them? _

_ I have never gotten kisses over text, no. _

_ That’s a shame. Have some more. xxxxxx _

_ XXX _

_ There you go, you’re getting the hang of it. _

_ Shouldn’t you be showering? _

_ I would much rather keep kissing you, but yep. I’ll call you later, if I have the time. _

_ Okay. Goodbye, Dean. _

_ Cya Cas. xxx _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! I hope you enjoyed this little continuation :D
> 
> I think this might be all I have for this particular story, but I actually really enjoyed writing the two of them in this universe. As always, thank you so much for reading, and let me know your thoughts! <333


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